Angel
by Cr1mson5
Summary: He didn't know how he ended up there, or even where he was, but he knew there was pain, just as there had always been.
1. Not Tim Anymore

**Disclaimer: You know…if I owned it, chances are that Tim Drake probably wouldn't be as sane as he is in the comics. And he'd probably be the star of many a strange story, as you all can testify to. But, sadly, I don't own any of this except the stuff that is blatantly the product of my own imagination. So, mainstream Tim is safe...for now.**

Where am I…?

I don't know anymore.

I exist in a strange state nowadays, always seemingly half-awake, half-aware, never really seeing anything that I look at or hearing what's said to me. And it's like floating outside your own body, the way I feel right now. I know I'm doing things, awful things, but I can't tell that I am. It hurts, but I don't notice, and I don't know why I do what I do except that the pain goes away if I do.

I can't say how much of it they've already given me, the drug that forces me to do these things without caring, but it must be a lot, because my veins still burn with it and my skin reeks of it. Blood and sweat mingle on my face, and it tastes like it. Its fire blazes within me, searing every inch of my body and overloading my senses with pain so terrible that I dull my mind to escape it, and then they strike, telling me things that I would never believe, words I know have no meaning, things that I would never do, wrong things, but I listen to them anyway. I listen, and I obey, because I no longer have the ability to resist, since it gave out long ago. I just want the pain to stop, and they say it'll stop if I do what I'm told. So I do what they tell me to, because they'll take it away if I do.

I can gather that I'm lying on my side on something hard and cold, the floor of some building. Thinking this, I realize that I'm becoming more lucid, which means they'll drug me again here shortly.

I want to get up and move, make it possible to get away and get help, but my limbs are so heavy that it feels like I'll never lift them again because they're too much weight for me to deal with. There's a blessed numbness about me that feels so great because it's an absence of the hurt that's enveloped me from the beginning. I wonder how I got into this situation, and I'm stunned to remember that I don't remember. I just know that they give me the medicine, and it makes me feel much less in control of myself, of my actions. I don't like it, the helplessness that surrounds me here on this floor. I don't want to feel like I'm at their mercy, like I'm their puppet that they can do as they please with. I want to show them that I can be just as dangerous to them as I am to the people they send me after.

But I don't feel like it right now. I get tired so easily these days, and I just want to sleep right now. Some part of me says that I have to get up and fight back, but another part of me says that it's hopeless even if I could. There's too much of the drug coursing through my system, inhibiting my control, my ability to do what I used to do, to do the right thing for once instead of screwing it up like I already have.

My eyes drift closed, and immediately, I see images of the needles stabbing into my skin, the green fluid pumping into me, and feel the burn all over again. Then I see other things, too, blood splatters and terrified faces and bodies slumped in corners, but I don't really care because I have no idea what it means anymore. All that registers is the pain, the endless pain that takes me and sweeps me up into its folds and makes me do all these horrible things. I jerk awake from the dream, but the pain lingers there, unyielding, unwilling to let me go even after all I've done. And suddenly, I don't know how I can live with myself because of what I've done.

Thinking back on it all, I can remember the people I killed. Bruce and Dick and Damian and Stephanie got away since they're fast and strong. But Helena, Dinah, Barbara…I honestly don't know what happened to them. I have no idea how I took down Huntress and Black Canary, I…I can't think if I killed them or not. The Birds of Prey blur in my memory, and then everything else turns fuzzy with them. I think I might've gotten to the Sirens; I'm not sure. Batwoman is gone; I remember that much. I can't quite place what happened to Azrael or Lynx or Moneyspider. I think a few of the rogues got it, too. All I know is, whoever I killed, it's their blood on my face and hands, staining my sweatshirt and the soles of my shoes. Whatever I did to them, it's over now, and even though I know, I won't remember that I know. I…I don't know what to do anymore…I don't know what I'm supposed to do…if somebody could help me…

But nobody knows where I am, just like I don't know where I am. And through the knowledge is the pain, a different pain now, the kind that comes from being left behind to fend for myself when I know that I can't handle it all alone. I'm friendless, without a family to support me, and I'm slowly picking off whoever's left—_if_ anyone's left—because I can't help it. I have to do it. I no longer have any choice in the matter. It feels like it's been years since I could make my own decisions, and it probably has been. My mind supplies an image for me, an image of Dick's face the last time I saw him without the cowl on, before I attacked him. The once-flawless skin was furrowed with worry lines and battle scars, the slicked-back black hair now graced with gray. How much older has he gotten, I wonder? I still look—still _am_—eighteen.

Time is slipping by me slowly. I spend it all lying here in this place, wherever this place is, alone and as yet untouched. I start to get hopeful now, as my mind begins to clear for the first time in so long. Maybe they're done with me. Maybe they won't come tonight.

Then, a man kneels down in front of me, turning my head gently so I can see his face. A strong jaw, a straight nose, bright blue eyes and pale skin, hair like devil's horns…I shudder when he touches me, when I recognize him. He smirks down at me triumphantly, holding up a silvery injector full of the drug. "I have another assignment for you, Timothy," Ra's al Ghul states cryptically before jamming the injector's needle down into a vein on my neck.

The fluid races through my body, bringing the pain back fresh and anew. I writhe on the floor, screaming and clawing at anything within reach. My vision blurs, but I can make out that Ra's has stepped back and is watching me have a fit with a smile on his face. I wonder how much of this stuff he thinks he can give me before I die. But I'm sure he doesn't care. After all, he's already killed me once, right? What's the harm of doing it about three more times for good measure?

At some point, it comes to my attention that I've stopped struggling to fight the drug. I'm lying stilly on the floor, letting it burn my veins up and consume my mind. Then comes a strange feeling of exhilaration spreading through me, and I realize, somewhat horrified, that I like it. I like the rush of power, the onslaught of sensations this drug has imbued on me. And then I see that the Tim-Drake-That-Was is fading too rapidly to be saved now. All that's left at this point is whatever Ra's al Ghul has made me into.

I'm on my feet, somehow, standing straight without swaying, which is miraculous. Ra's circles me, as if appraising real estate, and then he nods to himself in satisfaction. "Now," he announces, "you are ready—_Angel_."

He hands me a score of weapons that I strap onto myself with ease, so I know that I've been here for years if he's gotten me this used to handling swords, knives, shuriken, guns, and grenades. Then he turns to me and commands, "Do not return until you've killed all that remain." As I turn to go, he stops me by calling out, "_But_… Bring Bruce and Damian Wayne to me _alive_. I have unfinished business with them as yet."

I nod, and then I'm in the air, still somehow keeping aloft despite the weight on me. I swing through the streets of Gotham just as I used to, but I can feel how different it all is now. The city's changed. The people have changed. Even the family's changed. And, of course, so have I, but it wasn't like I chose that. No, whatever's happened to me, it's not my fault, but that doesn't make me feel any better about what I have to do.

And so, Tim Drake flies off into the night one last time out of many one last times to kill everybody he has left to hold onto.

No. I'm not Tim Drake anymore.

I'm Angel.

**~ The End? ~**


	2. Faces

Dick recognizes the face of the young assassin who's caught him in his trap, and he's sure that the boy recognizes him, too. Even with whatever's been done to him, there's no way he could forget Dick's face, the amount of time they spent together all those years ago…

Twenty-five long years come racing back to him in an instant. He remembers what it was like, losing a second little brother. He remembers calling off the investigation, deciding that, whatever had happened on that bittersweet day, the boy was dead. He even remembers erecting the memorials in Titans Tower and the Hall of Justice, although his brother hadn't been a member of the Justice League, the eulogies he gave on those days. He wrote different ones, touching on different aspects of the boy's personality, because he'd decided that he needed two just to cover everything about the huge heart that had been in that slender chest, the huge heart that, somewhere in the world, was no longer beating. And it's funny that he should remember those things, because the face of the young assassin standing before him is that of Tim Drake-Wayne.

The two and a half decades that have passed since his eighteenth birthday seem to have had very little, if any, effect on him. His pale skin is still the smooth, virginal flesh of a person caught between childhood and adulthood, still slightly flushed red at the cheeks. He still stands a few inches under Dick's own height, his body still of the same lean, muscular build that Dick recalls he always had. His black hair hangs in his face, tangled and messy, the way it always was back then. And, even after all these years, some part of him still seems to recollect that his trademark colors were red, black, and gold, evidenced by the red shirt under the black leather jacket and gold belt holding up his jeans.

But…he's so different now…

In all the years they'd known each other, Tim would never have dreamed of threatening Dick's life in any way. But, Dick notes, that doesn't appear to be the case now. His expression is one of seriousness, almost raw fury, signaling his full intent to kill his older brother. Compounded with the Kris blade at Dick's throat and the fact that he's staring down the barrel of a heavy-caliber pistol, he's pretty sure that Tim is going to murder him, right here, right now, and he probably doesn't care. It's possible, maybe even certain, if Dick had more time to analyze it, that Tim really doesn't remember who his older brother is, doesn't remember anything of who _he_ was. In that case, he doesn't remember that he used to shudder at the very idea of killing someone.

Dick still has to try, though, for the sake of the family and everything they both used to be, used to symbolize.

He swallows hard, forcing down his fear and his sorrow and his regret, and manages to say, "Don't do this."

The blade digs farther into his skin, drawing a little blood, and the gun moves closer to his face. "Don't think I won't," Tim warns, and his voice sounds exactly the same as it did twenty-five years ago when Dick heard it last.

"I never said I thought you wouldn't."

"You didn't have to."

_Something's wrong here, _Dick thinks, and he's almost startled to realize that he can still think through the intensity of the situation, the very real chance that tonight will be his last night alive. _He's stalling. Why is he stalling?_

"Listen to me, for just a second…this isn't like you. I knew you before all of this—this _tragedy_ happened. You and I, we were _brothers_. We were closer to each other than anyone else on the planet." He takes a chance, reaches out, and touches the hand holding the knife, lightly, so that Tim doesn't feel like he's in danger from Dick. Surprisingly, he doesn't pull away—not yet, at least. "Please…you have to remember what you used to be, _who_ you used to be. You're not a killer, Tim, and you never were."

Suddenly, Tim has recoiled from Dick's touch and is pressing him up against a brick wall with an astounding amount of force. _"What did you call me?" _he demands. Tim's knife has been tucked away somewhere Dick can't see, and the hand that was holding it has a viselike grip around Dick's throat. The hold tightens when he says nothing. _"Answer me!"_

"T-Tim," Dick chokes out. "I…c-called you…Tim…it was your name."

A new expression unfolds on Tim's face, something Dick can't quite place. It looks like a mixture of confusion and contrition, like he's remembered something that he's sorry he couldn't keep on forgetting but only had it in mind for an instant. He lets go of his brother, bringing his gun down to his side, and licks his lips. He stands there for the longest time, watching Dick sit on the ground trying to catch his breath, as if searching for the right words to say. "Why'd you let me forget?" he whispers.

Dick looks up to ask what he means and sees the butt of the pistol flying at him. He can't get his hands up fast enough to block it before it slams into his temple, knocking him down onto his hands and knees. When he rights himself and sits back up, Tim has vanished into the night.


	3. Refuge

I perch atop one of the oldest buildings in Gotham, a building that I recognize but can't quite remember anymore. Its archaic design and darkened stained-glass windows, coupled with its towering structure and abundance of nooks, crannies, and gargoyles to duck behind, makes it the perfect hiding place to go to for an examination of events, or perhaps of conscience. I think to myself that I used to know this place, used to come here often or else I wouldn't know the way, but I don't know why I know it. I can't quite put my finger on how I was first introduced to this monolithic edifice, or why I took an interest in it, but I'm pretty sure it was probably some sort of a refuge for me even then. It brings a strange sense of peace to my frenzied mind and frantic heart, my overtaxed nerves and busily-working brain, as if to say, "Relax, Angel. Take a deep breath. You're safe here."

But I can't help but think that I'm _not _safe, that _nowhere_ is safe.

I bury my head in my hands, recalling the order Ra's gave me before I left: _"Do not return until you've killed all that remain." _This was a failure. No other word for it. I had Grayson right under my hands, could've killed him at any time, but I just…I didn't. And I don't know why.

And of all the stupid things to say, "Why'd you let me forget?" What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

I think I know already. The briefest flash of something, I'm not sure what, ran through my mind when he called me by that name, when he called me Tim. If I could just think hard enough…but, no, it's already gone, the memory or whatever it was is already gone. I get a grasp on it, and then it fades, too fast for me to remember.

I decide to allow myself as much respite as I can get and sit back, leaning against a gargoyle and letting the stone's coolness seep through my clothing to my already warm, sweat-soaked skin. I feel so tired all of a sudden, so drained, like I could just lie down right here and sleep away what's left of my life, and I'm stunned that I'm not stunned that I know the feeling well, recognize it. It's the same feeling I always get when I'm coming off the drug. And then, sure enough, the burn starts up again in the pit of my stomach, escalating from slight annoyance to almost unbearable. I curl up a little more on my spot, drawing my knees up to my chest and pressing myself even farther into the gargoyle's solidness, hoping that it'll ground me, keep me rooted to this position so I'm not tempted to throw myself onto the street. What's happening to me?

When was the last time I could answer that question?

At last, after what feels like forever, the pain dies away, and my rigid body uncoils, slowly, as if it's afraid to do much just in case it hurts all over again. My head is just a little clearer, my thoughts a little more sensible. The only downside is that a pinching sensation starts up in my right hand, just beneath the knuckle of my thumb. I sigh. Of course my gun hand would cramp, right when I need it most. I grip my thumb and pull it back, hard, stretching it. I do it again and again, and eventually it rids my hand of the cramp.

I count my heartbeats, take stock of my breaths. They're still a little fast. I have to consciously think about it to slow my system down, to calm myself. While I have a moment, I reach into the holster on my leg and pull out my gun, checking it over. I never fired it, of course. I've already determined _that_ to be a slip in judgment. But it doesn't hurt to be sure. I can almost feel…can almost remember that I never used to be this familiar with guns. I adjust my grasp on the weapon, fluttering my fingers a little for the sake of watching them move against the cold black metal. When did I learn this craft? Killing doesn't seem like the kind of thing you just pick up, the kind of thing you familiarize yourself with when you're not really paying attention. No, it's more the kind of thing that takes practice, takes discipline, like playing an instrument. This kind of skill…it takes time.

"_There_ you are."

The bullet discharges from the pistol without even so much as a shred of hesitation. I don't even grace it with a second thought. I spin around and fire up into the air, in the direction of the voice. She dodges, leaping off the dome and onto the roof behind me. I'm on my feet in an instant and swing a wide punch at her head. She parries it easily, but she misses the real hit, the fist that has just collided rather forcefully with her gut. She doubles over, and then I have her on the floor, straddling her, pinning her arms down with my knees. My left hand is full of the strap of her vest, and my right hand is practically burying the barrel of the pistol in her chest. "Who are you?" I snarl.

She holds up both hands in a gesture of accepted defeat, or perhaps of calming, and replies gently, "Easy, there, Angel. My name is Sierra. I was sent to find you."

"_Why?"_

"Ra's al Ghul thought it would be best if you had some backup."

The feeling that I have in that moment is like shock, and it hits me like a truck going seventy down a deserted road. My gun hand withdraws from her chest, and I release her slowly, my fist struggling to uncurl and my knees shaking ever so slightly as I stand up. I back away from Sierra, holding my pistol up with only my thumb and forefinger, signaling surrender, and I look her over as she pushes herself up off the hard stone and brushes herself off. She's probably about eighteen or nineteen, with a complexion that's somewhere between light and dark and brown hair pulled into a long braid down her back. Her black top and pants are form-fitting, tight, showing off her athletic figure, and her vest is covered in pockets that I instinctively know are loaded down with gear. As I watch her, she pivots slightly to the left and right, checking for any damage on her own guns. This girl seems trained, but it's rough. Her haphazard rooftop dance, her inattentiveness to the fight and the way she let me catch her off-guard, it all reeks of amateurism. She's talented, maybe, but she's new. And it makes me wonder…did Ra's send her for backup, or because she needs to learn what it's really like out in the field?

Sierra is glowering at me. "Well, now that we've gotten introductions out of the way." She approaches me more cautiously than before, eyeing me in the same way you might eye a rabid tiger. "You're a hard man to find, you know that? It took me all night to track you down. You could've at least made it a little easier."

I set the safety on my gun and holster it, shaking my head. "Don't want to chance the Bats following me. A murky trail leads to a happy assassin." I cross my arms and give her another good once-over with my eyes. "So—why'd Ra's send you? Why not set the Men of Death after me as my 'backup'?"

Sierra rolls her eyes. "I _am_ one of the Men of Death, genius. I'm new. He says I need to work on my team-playing skills."

"That's obvious."

All anxieties about a repeat of the incident that occurred only a few moments before fade with my comment. She gets right up in my face, ignoring the fact that she's leaving herself open, and growls, "Look, I don't know what your issue is, _Angel_, and I honestly don't give a damn about it. If you've got a problem with me, you'll just have to suck it up and deal, because I'm the _only_ backup you're getting on this mission. And, for the record, I am _way_ more capable than what you give me credit for." I scoff at her, taking my turn at eye-rolling. "Is this a sexist thing? Because if it is—"

"It's not a sexist thing, _Sierra_," I respond hotly. "It's just that I've got a job to do, and I can't afford to waste time conditioning some perky little pixie just out of training school!"

"You can afford to 'waste time' on whatever Ra's al Ghul orders you to!" She pauses, an almost haughty smile overcoming her features. "Or did you forget that?"

I feel my eyes narrow in a death glare. "Don't even talk to me about forgetting."

She shrugs, taking a step back and letting her muscles relax once more. "From what I hear, you've been in this longer than anyone else except Ra's himself. You, of all people, ought to know not to buck the chain of command. We're doing this for you. The details of the mission made that much clear to me. So be the good actor they all tell me you are and fake a little gratitude for me. It's the least you can do to repay me for six straight hours of scouring this hellhole looking for you."

A smirk pulls at the left corner of my mouth despite the fact that all I really want to do is frown at her. She's right, about the chain of command thing. I may be the pet project, but Ra's is the head man, and he can have me killed at any time for disobeying him. He's sent Sierra here for a reason. I'm just supposed to trust that it's a good one.

The problem is…I don't trust much anymore.

"You"—I jab a finger at her—"have an attitude, Miss Sierra. I'd debate whether or not to kill you right now and string you up by your ankles, but you're also, to your credit, very persuasive. Here's the deal: you want to work with me, you've gotta keep up with me. You can't lag, you can't slow me down, and you damn sure better make decisions quick. Do what I say, unless I say it's your call. But the bottom line is that you're an assassin. You work for the deadliest organization on the planet, meaning you better do your job, because I'm not doing it for you. Are we clear?"

She's trying not to let her relief show on her face. She probably didn't plan for what would happen if I told her I didn't need her help, or, worse yet, tried to kill her. "Crystal," she tells me.

I give a curt nod. "Good. Let's go."

So much for my refuge, I guess.


	4. Explain Away

Damian listens to Dick as he details his encounter with the young assassin he's certain is their long-lost brother. He knows that it's probably too much to hope for, that the crime scene they burst in on twenty-five years ago had been only the remnants of an unsolvable murder, but he doesn't want to drag Dick down. He did enough of that as a kid. Nowadays, now that so much has changed and there are so few members of the "original" family left, he finds it more important than ever to be supportive of his older brother.

Barbara dabs at her husband's nicked throat with iodine, looking concerned and crestfallen and falsely hopeful all at once. Damian can tell that she doesn't believe it, either; she wants to, sure, and she knows she can't, but she doesn't want to make Dick sad. "Are you sure it was really him?" she asks for what must be the thousandth time in ten minutes.

"Yes, Babs, I'm sure," Dick reiterates impatiently, swatting at her cotton ball. "It was him. But he was still so…" He trails off, as if uncertain that he should continue. "He was still so young, still looked eighteen. He looked just like I remember that he did before…before all of that."

In the momentary silence that follows the detail, Damian hums to himself. It should be all the more evidence that Dick is wrong, that it's just a young man who happens to be the spitting image of Timothy Drake—after all, Gotham has no shortage of black-haired, blue-eyed boys—but something tugs at the back of his mind, telling him to give it a second chance. It says to him that no matter how impossible it may seem, he knows there's one thing that could do this. He's well-versed with it, grew up around it. But he doesn't voice the theory, because he knows the effect it'll have on the rest of their little motley crew. No reason to make them all worried for him. "He'd be forty-three, Dick," Damian points out. "You know there's no way—"

"Look, I know what I saw," Dick cuts him off sharply. "It was _Tim_. It _had_ to be."

Babs' face is more careworn than usual now, showing her true feelings. She's almost remorseful that Dick is telling them all of this, that he truly believes he saw his little brother. "Dick, honey, I know…I know you've missed him," she says gently. "You missed him more than anybody else, and you still miss him now. After so long of him being dead, I know you want to see him, I know you want it to be true or possible somehow, but…it just _isn't_. Tim is gone, just like Cass, just like…like Bruce." Her voice drops to a level of audibility just barely above a whisper. "They can't come back. None of them can, and he's no different."

Damian wishes that it could be as concrete for him as it is for Babs, wishes that he could be as certain about Tim's death as she, but he knows he can't. That thought, that childhood memory, has changed his whole outlook in an instant.

Dick bows his head, but not in defeat as someone else might. His eyes mist over, his shoulders hunch forward a little, and he begins to pick at the armor on his kneecap. Damian recognizes the position, the body language. He's reminiscing. "Do you remember, all those years ago, when Tim first became Red Robin?" he inquires, directing the question at the room in general. "He thought Bruce had lived through the Crisis. He took up the name because nobody had believed him. This, right now, it kind of reminds me of then."

Damian turns his attention to the far wall on his right, letting his eyes linger on the row of glass memorial cases. It's sickening, the sheer number of them. There only used to be two (three, when Tim had been Red Robin), but now, there are six: Batgirl, Robin, Batman, Blackbat, Alfred, and Red Robin. Damian always thought it important to note, if only in his own mind, that Tim, Jason, and Alfred never actually died in combat, but they still deserve those memorials, Jason for obvious reasons. Their poor old butler endured more than they ever did, losing a "son" and three "grandchildren" and living through the injuries of many others in their family. It was almost a blessing, when the cancer took him, because he wouldn't suffer so many physical and emotional pains anymore. And Tim, well…they never did figure out what happened to him. The case was, of course, high-profile, so much so that the FBI got involved and even agreed to work side-by-side with the Batmen and their associates. But whoever it was that'd gotten inside that house had covered their tracks well enough that no one, not even such a skilled team of investigators, could find a trace of evidence suggesting anything beyond a kidnapping/murder. They put up the memorial in the cave the day that Dick dropped the ball and had Tim declared legally dead. Damian still remembers how strange it was to put an empty casket in the ground, still remembers thinking that it wasn't a funeral without a body. That had been the family's mantra for the longest time: _"It's not a funeral without a body."_ It said that they weren't giving up on anything, least of all Tim. Many of them had been determined that they would disregard that tombstone, wouldn't touch it or lay flowers on it or even look at it, until they knew what'd happened to Tim. They had resolved to bring him home, one way or another.

He takes a few steps toward the cases, wondering when that changed. He guesses it was probably sometime after Blackbat—_Cass_, he reminds himself in his mind—was killed. He had just met his sister, and they adored each other. She died within a year of Tim and was buried right next to the place where he was supposed to be. She had only been nineteen years old, far too young to die…just like her little brother.

Damian is suddenly right next to the memorials, resting a hand on his father's. His heart stings when he recalls the last thing Bruce ever said to him. _"No matter what happens, son, I'm proud of the man you've become."_ He'd been twenty-six when the JLA sent them on that suicide mission, the one that got Batman killed for real. Damian had been offered the mantle, but he turned it down. He said he preferred the one he already had, and it was true. That name was a silent tribute to everyone he lost, everyone that moved on.

It technically hadn't even been his idea. He'd been going through some old files on Tim's computers, the week after his brother was declared dead, and found some rather interesting log entries. Before he'd gotten comfortable in his role, Tim had planned for Red Robin to be temporary. Once Bruce was back and everything was normal again, Red Robin would disappear and give way to Peregrine. Damian even found unfinished designs for the armor and transportation that he took himself and completed. Once his tenure as Robin was complete, he took on Peregrine as his own. He figures he owes Tim that much, after causing him so much grief. He thinks they could've been close, if they'd both just gotten past their stupid pride and their jealousy and really took the time to get to know each other. They might've even become best friends, just like Dick and Tim had been. Six or eight years of difference in age don't matter when you care about somebody.

He's never told anyone that he carved the name of every dead family member on the underside of the Peregrine armor. That's kind of his thing. Despite the fact that Tim's name is carved in that armor, he can't bring himself to explain away this sudden appearance.

Damian is brought out of his musings when he hears Dick say, "I have every confidence that Tim is still alive, and I fully intend to get him back from whoever has him—no matter what it takes."

Damian looks back to see that his older brother is sitting up straight with squared shoulders, his face set in determination. They're not talking to Dick anymore; they're talking to Batman. _In which case,_ Damian thinks, going back over to him, _he'll need to talk to my other face, too._

"There's something else," Peregrine states, gaining the attention of both the other heroes. "I think I know how Tim ended up like this."

Batman nods and turns to Oracle. "Contact Robin, Batgirl, and the Outlaws," he orders. "Get Spoiler, too, if you can find her. Tell them it's important." He stands and turns to Peregrine, pulling his cowl over his face. "We're going to put our family back together, starting tonight. Let's get to work."


	5. Pity

"So, how'd you end up with them, Angel? The League, I mean. What happened that put you out here?"

Sierra is getting a little too comfortable a little too fast. I've literally just met the girl, and she's already asking tons of questions that I don't think I can answer…not right now, anyway. And sitting out by the docks, in my car, waiting for one of the Bats to show up, I'm wishing she would realize that and shut up before I lose my temper with her. I grip the steering wheel tightly and say, to avoid having to tell her anything, "You do realize that we're on a stakeout, right? And that the point of a stakeout is to pay attention so as not to miss your target when he or she arrives?"

"Yeah, well, we've been staking this place out for four hours now," she points out. "Obviously, the target's taking their sweet time showing up tonight, so you've got some time to answer a few questions."

"I really hate questions."

"Well, too bad, because I'm curious. And besides, it's harder for me to trust you when I don't know anything about you. How am I supposed to work with someone I can't trust?" She pauses for a moment. "It's not like we have to tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets or anything. It's just the basic stuff that interests me. I like to fill in the blanks."

In my mind, even though I'm cussing her out, I'm also reminding myself that she has a point. This mission will never succeed if we're more suspicious of each other than we are of the targets. She and I have to give each other a damn good reason not to shoot one another right here, right now, and if that means answering questions, well…I'd rather be trusted than dead. Still, doesn't mean I have to like it. I flutter my fingers on the wheel and growl, "What do you want to know?"

"How'd you end up with the League?"

I think about it for a minute, and then I realize that I'm not really sure, so I shrug. "How'd you?"

"I was…" She gives a nervous little laugh, tucks some loose hair behind her ear. "I was just a kid. I had friends, and a family, and a life, but I wanted to _be_ something, _do_ something more, and so I ran. I—I thought I could make the world a better place on my own." She nods, more to herself than to me, and shrugs out of pure awkwardness. "The League of Assassins was kind of my place to do that." I can't resist the urge to laugh at that answer, so I let myself chuckle a bit. She looks flabbergasted and a little hurt. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry," I apologize, still snickering. "It's just that the bullshit answer you're trying to feed me is a little bit hard to believe."

She huffs in indignation and folds her arms over her chest. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead and pull your high-horse crap. It's not like I can't take it. Just remember that, technically, you're no better than me." I give her a look that must be something like surprise mixed with skepticism. "So I just happen to think that the world would be a better place without certain people. If you thought any differently, would you be an assassin?"

Okay. She's got me there. I lean forward onto the steering wheel with my wrists crossed and admit, grudgingly, "That's true."

We sit in silence for a while longer, and I'm starting to think that maybe she's going to drop the subject when she asks again, "What about you? How'd you end up here?"

I close my eyes and breathe deep, forcing my anger to stay under control. I don't like it when people ask personal questions. It's my life, my secrets, and I'll decide what I want to tell. But, right now, I don't really have a choice but to tell her the truth, because I'm really not that good at improvisation. "I don't know."

Sierra's hazel eyes go wide. "You don't know?"

"No."

"How can you not know? I mean, it's not really something you can forget, right?"

To hell with controlling my anger, she needs to know this is not an open subject. "What, you think that doesn't bother me or something? You think that I don't realize we're both League assassins, on a League-sanctioned mission, in a League car, doing League work? Every second of every minute of every day of my _life_, I am _surrounded_ by the goddamn League of Assassins. And you think it doesn't affect me in the least that I can't remember how I became one of them? It _does_!" I flop back in my seat, rubbing my forehead with a shaky hand and trying to regain some of my composure. "Look," I say in a deliberately softer, more even tone. "I know it seems weird, but you know what? I wouldn't sleep easy at night if I knew. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, I don't think. I can't explain it; I just…know that I'd hate myself if I could remember where I came from."

Sierra nods, as if this actually makes sense to her, but I can tell that there's a part of her that's just doing it to keep me from exploding again. She's very cautious with choosing her next words, even as she lets them out. "Have you ever even wondered, even just for a moment, what you used to be like?"

I contemplate it for a moment, deciding whether or not to go with honesty or something that'll sound sane. I pick honesty. "Trust me. Sometimes, not knowing is better. Besides, the way I see it, if I can't remember it…it couldn't have been that good for me, anyway. You have any more questions?"

She tilts her head, indicating something out the windshield to her right. "Isn't that the Batmobile?"

I follow her gaze, and, sure enough, the sleek black armored vehicle is just starting up, swerving a bit and roaring away. "Shit," I mutter, throwing the gear shift into drive and stamping down on the gas pedal.

We tear off after the Batmobile, speeding down the street after it to catch up. But, unfortunately, that does two things. One: it makes it so that I can't slow down until I'm practically right on its bumper. Two: it alerts whoever's inside—not necessarily Batman, you know—that they're being followed. They go into evasive mode and hang a hard left. I hairpin after them, trying to keep their back windshield in sight at all times, and keep close as we twist and turn through a labyrinth of alleys and back roads. I'm praying the whole while that we won't head onto Main Street, onto _any_ crowded road, really, but then the next thing I know, I'm jerking the wheel right and we're veering onto Parker Avenue, one of the busiest streets in Gotham.

We weave in and out of traffic, causing some of the cars around us to go astray into other lanes. I roll the wheel right, then left, then right again as a couple of police cars try to cut me off, skirting less-than-cleanly around them, and out of my peripherals, I see Sierra clutch at the handle. "Relax," I command. "It's not even bad yet."

Without warning, I swing a 180 and slam the car into reverse, backing down the now-clear lane in front of me until I pull up alongside the Batmobile. A quick shift to drive, a maneuvering of the wheel, and we're back behind them.

But soon, the cops are around us again, flanking both sides. Sierra releases her grip on the handle and pulls out one of her guns, loading a fresh magazine into it and cocking it. I glance down at it, and then up at her face. "Contingency plan," she states, matter-of-factly. "A good assassin always comes prepared."

I ram the driver's side of the car into the cops, starting up a tug-of-war with them. Our vehicles push against each other, each trying to win out over the other, but ours is gradually shoving theirs into the other lane. Sierra's window rolls down, and her arm goes out, shooting at the car on our right. I can't tell if she hits anyone or not, because I'm too preoccupied with the fact that our mirrors have just gotten entangled with the cops'. I grit my teeth, thinking that there's really only a couple of ways out of this. One gets us killed, and one doesn't, so I opt for the second plan, naturally. I start to pour every ounce of the car's might into getting the cops over, but they're still fighting back with equal force. We're going nowhere.

"Sierra, shoot left—aim for the tires!" I practically yell.

"Got it!" she responds, and then I'm trying to peer over her forearm as she blasts volleys of bullets at the cops. All the while, I'm subtly easing off the gas, lessening the pressure I'm putting into the push. When I hear the loud pops of two tires blowing out, I give them a good shove and send them over into the opposite lane. As if on cue, a red Camaro streaks by at the same moment, slamming straight-on into the cop car and taking my mirror with them. The tires squeal as I stamp down on the gas and jerk on the wheel again, banging the nose of our car into the squad car on our right. They spin out, getting T-boned somewhere down the road by a couple of people in a minivan, and I take off down the alley, navigating the narrow, shadowy streets with relative ease compared to the big roads.

When I'm sure we're not being followed, I pull into a small gap between buildings and turn off the car. Sierra and I sit in silence for a while, both breathing heavily, until I pound the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. The thud makes her jump in her seat, and I demand, "Goddamn it, Sierra, why didn't you say something before?"

"I thought you knew!" she replies hotly.

Our voices begin to rise. "We could've _had_ them! We could've been out of the car, down the docks, and done with it before half an hour had passed! But, no, instead, we had to deal with the cops on our tails! Now they'll be looking for this car, and anybody driving it _is going_ to be arrested, if not _shot_ on _sight_! What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"I'm _sorry_, okay? I'm _sorry_ that I don't have as much experience as you, I'm _sorry_ that I misjudged the situation, I'm _sorry_ that I'm the cause of _all_ your problems, I'm just _sorry_! And if you were _so_ worried about me screwing up your precious mission, maybe you should've just _killed _me right when you saw me!"

"Oh, you don't even _know_ how much I wish I could!"

"So, what's stopping you, huh? Just _do_ it, Angel! Just _kill_ me right now and have it over with!"

Before I can even stop to count to ten, or take a deep breath, or even think, my gun is drawn and the barrel is pressed to her forehead, right at the spot on the bridge of her nose directly between her eyebrows. She sucks in a little gasp of fright and shrinks away the minutest inch, trying hard to get her fear under control and failing miserably. My head whips around, and I glare at her, as if daring her to test me. She's an annoyance. She's a liability. And I don't have time for this bullshit. We'd both be better off if I just pulled the trigger. So why can't I kill her? Why can't I bring myself to do it?

The look of her face sparks some sort of emotion in my chest. She's sweating a little, loose strands of dark hair matted to her forehead with it. Her hazel eyes have gone wider than normal, showing the whites around the pupils. Each breath shudders in her chest, making her sound like she's rattling, and her lower lip trembles the slightest bit. She's an assassin, she can kill a man without the slightest bit of remorse, but she's scared to die. She's not quite ready to give the ultimate for her cause yet. And the look on her face…I see it and I feel that spark, and I suddenly know what it is.

Pity.

"Are you gonna do it?" she whispers, breathlessly.

I narrow my eyes a little more and get a little closer, drawing another gasp from her. I grate the idea against my nerves, and they shatter beneath it. My gun hand quivers, my finger stiff on the trigger, and then I drop it down to the glove compartment, as lifelessly as if I'd just lost the ability to control my arm. "No," I say, and I mean it. "I won't kill you. That'd be too easy."

Would it be? Or is it just because it'd be too hard?

Regardless of whatever she thinks, Sierra lets out a long, deep breath and relaxes into her seat. I set the safety on my gun and holster it again, shaking my head a little. I can't believe I just did that. What's more, I can't believe I _couldn't _do that. I'm an assassin, right? I'm the _deadliest_ assassin. I'm made up of cold bitterness and steel nerves, I'm…I'm Angel. But I can't kill her. And I don't know why.

I'm pretty sure she's thankful for that, though. She takes another shaky breath before telling me, quietly, "I…I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm sorry, for everything. That was my fault tonight."

"No, no," I say quickly. "It wasn't. It was…it was mine. I should've been watching. And I'm sorry I pulled my gun on you."

She seems surprised. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

"When you're an assassin, there is."

A shadow flits over us from directly above, and both of us have our hands on our guns in an instant. Trigger instinct, I guess. But it's gone just as quickly as it came, flying away, a dark figure.

And it happens to be wearing a cape.

We glance at each other. "This might be our chance," Sierra points out.

I nod, turning the key in the ignition. "Read my mind," I respond.


	6. Plans

"Alright, so…are there any questions?"

Damian's inquiry is met with a raised hand from Batgirl. "I thought all the Lazarus Pits in the world were destroyed," she pipes up. "Like, a decade ago."

It's a natural question for her to ask. Naomi Austin is only sixteen years old, fairly new to the family, and far too young to remember how it actually happened. What she doesn't know from her own memory, she's read from the files on their database, and as intelligent as she is, she doesn't connect it well. Of course, she would ask this question. She doesn't know what else to say right now.

Damian nods slowly. "It was _believed_ that all the Lazarus Pits were destroyed several years ago," he affirms. "However, there were some League of Assassins strongholds that couldn't be located and/or reached; therefore, we always considered it a possibility that there were also Lazarus Pits that went undisturbed in that amount of time."

Robin speaks up next. "If it's been twenty-five years since Red Robin supposedly died," he points out, "any one of those could've been implemented in making him…like this." Kolbe Grayson is careful with his words, as always. A year younger than Naomi, he is also two years more experienced than her, the one who has followed most in his father's footsteps as Batman's colorful sidekick. But he also knows how much his uncle meant to Dick, and so he tries hard not to say anything that will insult the elder Grayson. Kolbe, as dangerous as he can be to the street thugs and villains he fights every night, is timid when it comes to family.

"That's true," Dick acknowledges, rubbing at his lips. "Jason, you've got the most experience with Lazarus Pits. You have any thoughts you'd like to share?"

Jason shrugs. "It's not like I take a dip every time I get a paper cut," he quips. "Besides, two and a half decades of that…the kid's gone, Dick. No matter how much you want him back, the little brother you lost in '11 isn't the one you'll find—_if_ you manage to keep him from killing us all."

Dick's face goes stony, and Kolbe and Babs both stiffen. "Tim would _not_ kill us."

"Who's to say? After all, Lazarus Pits screw with your head. You said it yourself; he doesn't even remember."

"Regardless, he wouldn't just murder us all in cold blood, especially not—not my kids. There's gotta be some level of his personality that'll keep him from just…slaughtering."

Damian decides to intervene before this becomes an argument. "Look, we can all worry about the likelihood of Tim being hostile when we find him. The most important thing right now is figuring out how to get him home."

Naomi snorts. "Don't we have to find him to do that?"

Damian doesn't miss Kolbe's flinch. His newfound friend is not exactly a subtle young lady. No doubt the boy expects a harsh rebuttal. But Damian considers the truth in Naomi's statement and nods his agreement. "Yes, we will."

"You don't mean...you're not saying we're gonna go _meet_ him, are you?" Pariah demands. Vincent Carroll is young, skilled, but not quite ready to leap headlong into the fray yet. And he shouldn't be, not after losing so much in such a short time.

"That's exactly what I mean," Damian informs him.

The shocked looks that are exchanged within the next seven seconds are powerful enough that Damian can feel them even with his back turned toward the wall of memorials. "You're not serious," Stephanie states, pushing blonde bangs back from a face sticky with the sweaty residue left over from wearing her mask on the way there. And it is a statement. She fully expects the words to be a simple joke. Her eyes are murderous, her lips dripping with unseen venom when Damian turns back to her and shakes his head.

"There is _no _way," Ravager pipes up, "that I'm putting myself in the line of that crazy bastard's fire. I've got kids and a husband to think about, here."

"We all do, Rose," Steph snaps back, somewhat unnecessarily. "You're not the only one who has something to go back to."

"But you're probably the only one who doesn't, so why the hell do you care?"

"Ladies, that's enough!" Dick practically shouts over them. "We don't have time to fight here. We're all on the same side. Besides, that crazy bastard doesn't really have a choice but to work for Ra's. He's a prisoner." Dick directs a hot, pointed glare at Rose. "And I think we'd all do well to remember that."

Jason scoffs. "Just don't expect me to go easy on the kid—not after what he did to Batwoman."

Dick turns on Jason, ready to strangle his younger brother, when Damian steps in once again. "There's no call for slinging accusations," he says firmly, stifling the urge to shiver at how much of his father he can hear in his own voice. "We don't even know if it was Tim."

"You saw those tapes, Damian," Jason all but shouts. "You saw that assassin's face. You saw the way he cut her up—cut her up like she was meat on a hook…" He shakes his head, taking a step or two back. "Son of a bitch could kill us all, and you know he'll try his damnedest to do just that."

Damian nods gravely. "Yes, I do. But I can't let that knowledge rule me." He raises his voice to address the entire group. "And neither can any of the rest of you. I understand your concerns. I was trained by the League of Assassins as a child, so I know what we're coming up against. He has strength; we have numbers. We can—and _will_—get our brother back. All it'll take is a little…preliminary planning."

Predictably, Nightwing speaks up. "Somebody's gotta be bait," she declares.

"Right, but it won't be you," Damian replies brusquely.

Helena Kyle bristles at the curt remark. The young woman does little to hide the offense she's taken at his words. "What, you think I can't handle myself?"

Babs sighs. They've been through this too many times now. "That isn't what Peregrine means, Nightwing," she soothes. "What he's saying is that you're too valuable an addition to the roster to lose on this mission. Bait equals close-quarters combat, and you won't fare well against Tim now. Besides, we need someone a little stronger, a little faster, to keep up with him better."

Helena rolls her eyes, scoffs, but backs down. Like the good little girl she was trained to be, and it makes Jason's teeth grind together. He steps up in front of her, his stance protective. Almost as though he thinks he needs to keep her safe from her own allies. "I make all the decisions when it comes to the Outlaws," he announces, and he can hear the way Helena shifts, the subtle change in position behind him that means she's just about to hit him. "This is your gamble, but it's still my team we're talking about, here. If Helena wants to help, let her. She's twenty-seven; she can handle herself."

A flash of confusion crosses Helena's face (_"Is this seriously starting to pull my way?"_) before Scourge speaks up uncertainly. "Um, sorry, boss," he says, "but I've gotta agree with Oracle and Peregrine. No matter what happens…we can't really afford to lose Helena."

Joshua Martin is not the wisest of individuals tonight. Jason whirls on the young man, angrier than ever. "You think you're in charge now, Josh?"

Josh puts up his hands in a calming gesture. "No, boss, I just—"

Dick cuffs them both on the head, hard. "What part of 'we don't have time to fight here' do you guys just not understand? Like it or not, we're gonna head out tonight. We look for Tim. We bait him. We draw him in. After that, well…" He shrugs. "I guess we'll wing it."

Helena shakes her head, rubbing her arms nervously. Her eyes fall on the wall of memorial cases, locking on the empty case, the one she can't bring herself to set up. "Wasn't that what got everybody else killed?"


End file.
